Vivien
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: The Spy tells us of his first childish love. Spy/ScoutMa later on, but mostly one-sided Spy/Vivien Leigh.
1. The Scarlett O'Hara

**A/N: **This was not supposed to be written. But, ya know, I had to take a break from my other multi-chaptered story. This is what came up.

* * *

Admittedly, I have encountered many women in my life. Not all of those encounters were memorable, or even pleasant. Some of those meetings were dreadful. Such were those with some of my colleagues, rivals, and later even enemies. Arguably, the woman who had the most effect on me was my sister. Inarguably, the most outstanding woman I came across was an actress. A British actress that I never really came across, face-to-face. But I truly wish I had. I never knew the woman by anything other than the roles she played; I never once realized that there was a woman behind that face of a goddess. Ironic, really, considering the fact that that goddess shaped me into a man I am today.

A strange presence of hers always followed me. I carried her with me wherever I went. In my heart, in a newspaper article, in a framed photograph. You can consider it pathetic. I will not try to deny it or to defend myself. In that case, all childish adorations are to be considered feeble. That would make the signed photograph of Marlene Dietrich you keep under your bed look quite humorous. And, yes Mundy, I am talking to you. I believe our doctor shares your incomprehensible fascination with that woman. I certainly do not.

But I am not here to talk about your goddesses. I'm here to talk about mine. Although I never saw the woman, five images of hers were engraved in my memory. They came years apart, decades even. They stayed in my head, in my soul. I remember every image of hers, each image marking the beginning of a new era in my life.

These are the five faces of Vivien Leigh.

* * *

**The Scarlett O'Hara**

I was a young boy of seven when I first went to see a movie. I remember mother being particularly busy at the time, so my sister brought me to the film. I remember complaining like I usually did, about the damp Parisian streets, about the weather and the crowds we had to push through in order to get there. My sister did not seem to mind my rambling, but an occasional frown spread across her face, and if I said that she didn't consider throwing me in front of a moving vehicle, I would probably be lying.

Probably being the key word in that sentence. I could never truly understand her.

After about twenty minutes of walking, we arrived. The cigarette smoke, that would later soothe me like few other things would, stung my eyes and made me cough. I complained, imagining that I sounded exactly like an old man. My sister held her hand tightly on my wrist, an action which I found quite irritating. In my mind, I was already a grown man.

But I still had much to learn about sibling sacrifices, love and true beauty.

Finally, we were inside. The screening room was about the size of our Respawn room, though much less clean. Yes, it is possible. The smoke coming out of the expensive cigars filled the room until the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The chairs were all covered with red, ribbed corduroy that scratched against the palm of my hand, leaving deep imprints. I ran my finger over them out of boredom. A wide, white screen was spread across the wall, and I found myself squinting through the dense fog to see it. I complained about the chatter, saying to my sister that we will not be able to hear a word of the film. She sighed and moved a strand of hair off my face. How she refrained from punching me I will never know. The girl must have been a saint.

As the lights began to shut off one by one, the crowd's anxious rumble became an incoherent whisper. When the grainy snow appeared on the white fabric spread before our eyes, the chatter completely vanished. All that could be heard was a mechanical, buzzing sound, most likely coming from the film projector, spreading a tiny ray of light from behind a hall in the wall. It spread wider and wider until it hit the screen, making an image clearly visible. I watched the light before my eyes, my head propped up against my hand. I sighed, telling my sister that the opening credits were too long. This was followed by a couple of hisses from the back, commanding me to be silent.

I have no recollection of what was going through my head moments before I saw the first scene. But I remember the first time I saw her face, the face that left me completely and utterly speechless for the first time in my life.

Two men were parading around a woman wearing a long, white gown. I found that dress completely repulsive, but that was before I could make out the woman wearing it. The men had long glasses in their hands, odd plants coming out of them. Not knowing a lick of English at the time, I had no idea what they were talking about. I had half of my mind set on leaving the room and going off into the streets. Curses left my mouth. Why on Earth could she have expected me to spend hours watching something I wouldn't understand? I understand now why my sister didn't hit me when I entirely deserved it. She was a lunatic.

But the English stopped being an issue as the two men parted and revealed a face in between them. My jaw dropped when I saw her, and I immediately forgot about the language. I forgot that I was even watching the film.

Describing the woman on screen in front of me would be presumptuous; words would not do her justice.

But, being a very presumptuous person, I will try to do so.

Her face was pale, glowing by the sunlight that needn't even be real to highlight her beauty. In all my life I have never seen such a beautiful face, except for one exception which I will cover later on as I tell you this story. And it was surrounded by thick locks of dark hair. To this day, I shamefully admit, I was never certain if her hair was extremely dark brown or completely black. It fell just above her shoulders, curled at her delicate neck. Not a single hair was out of place, not a single hair of her eyebrows, either. They arched perfectly above her turquoise eyes, streaked with fine, dark marks like marble. And to top off her stunning visage, two thin lips a soft shade of pink, stretching into a mischievous smile as she told the two men that a war would not occur. I could not understand her at the time, but I still enjoyed listening to her voice, new and exotic to me. Overall, a vision that was sitting right in front of me. I could barely speak I was so taken aback.

I told you I could not do her justice.

My sister moved closer to me.

"That's Scarlett," she whispered. "She's played by Vivien Leigh."

The name fell from her lips and into my puerile heart.

I watched that entire movie, not making a sound. My sister inched towards me, explaining the plot in short, and at times annoying sentences. I ended up liking the movie. I grew so incredibly angry whenever somebody in the back begun to speak. Though I couldn't fully comprehend the plot, I understood it. I understood everything Scarlett felt. She had inflicted a spell on me with a blink, a smile, and a phrase that I would later use intermittently during my childhood, not knowing exactly what it meant.

_Fiddle-dee-dee!_

My sister warned me about using the phrase too much. She warned me about becoming one of _those_ men, the men that phrase suited.

My sister was an insane, homophobic saint. Then again, weren't they all?

* * *

**A/N: **I know, I know... but I swear to God, this is the last time I write romance... weeeeell, maybe the second-last time.  
And yes, there will be more to this... sorry.


	2. The Signed Photograph

**A/N: **Yes. Yes I am silly for writing this. And no. No you will not like it. But then again, it doesn't really matter, does it?

* * *

**The Signed Photograph**

The second face of Vivien imprinted itself in my head much later in life.

I was a young boy of twelve. Not a child, far from a man.

Having lost my family in a war, I was sent to Avignon by the Resistance. It was an odd program of theirs, placing orphaned children in a foster home. I was nine at the time of my sister's death. That meant I would have to be accommodated in a strange family until I was old enough to start earning a living. This was originally a program where an older couple, possibly incapable of having kids, would give a homeless child shelter and food.

It did not work that way.

Instead, they would put you in (and I use this phrase nicely) a shit-hole. Once again, thank you, Scout for using that phrase so freely around the base. I would be left without words to describe this foster home if it weren't for you.

I was to share a room with five other boys. The girls were in the other room, just next to ours. I think there were twelve children living in the small house, but I could be mistaken. The men in the Resistance did not do many background checks, as it would later turn out. Some kids placed in the program were killed by their new families. Some others went missing. I believe only a handful of us were incorporated in the plan. Others were sent to an orphanage.

They were the lucky ones.

I found myself lying on my cheek, dirt gathering in my skin, dust and grime from the rickety floorboards. Another "brother" of mine was sitting on my back, telling me to surrender. I have no recollection of what sparked the fight. It could have easily been the last orange I had eaten. Or maybe he enjoyed acting like a savage.

"Surrender!" He yelled, pulling at my hair. The others did nothing to stop the fight. They encouraged it. I slammed my open palm against the floor and shouted a couple of affirmations, mostly to save my hair.

"Yes! Please, yes, just let me go!"

I was never good at hand-to-hand combat. And of course, the family frowned upon me stabbing my new siblings. I surrendered, contributing to the well-known French stereotype.

Rolling away, I breathed heavily and stared into the mold accumulating in the corners of the room. The room really was appalling. And sharing it with these brutes was not my idea of fun in the slightest. The boy stood above, his hands folded over his chest. His face formed something I would later begin to call 'a shit-eating grin'. I believe the expression later caught up with the masses. Either way, I frowned and tried to get up on my feet, but as soon as I tried to prop myself up, he placed his foot on my chest and pushed me down.

"Oh my God, Adrien!" He tossed his head back and cackled. "You are pathetic."

"Eat…" I took a deep breath; "…shit."

I don't know what would have happened if one of my siblings hadn't rushed in the door, a note crumpled in his hand. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly, all eyes were not on me. I took the opportunity to get up on my feet.

"Guys, guys!" He shouted, holding out the note. "Guess who I saw!"

"Who?" The others asked while I dusted the dirt off my shirt. I couldn't get all of it off me, large clumps of it were glued to my back. The crowd formed around the boy holding the note, and I simply stood there, glaring at them with hate.

The boy stretched out his arm and the note unfolded himself. A gasp came out of every boy, and even I had to move closer to see it. It seemed to be a signature, written in cursive. The paper used was a thin, white napkin.

"Is that…?" One sibling o mine pointed at it, his mouth agape. The boy wielding the note nodded.

"Madeleine Renaud!" The boy responded, beaming with pride. "I saw her in a coffee shop!"

"And you just asked her for an autograph?" Another boy asked.

"Yes!"

"You're lying!"

"It's true! She was really nice and everything!"

The boys all looked at the signature, written in long, bold letters. I did not care for it much. Madeleine was hardly interesting to me. But my siblings would go mad whenever somebody spoke to any celebrity, it didn't even matter whether they liked the person or not. They had a collection of those autographs, written on napkins and torn book pages. I personally considered those a waste of books. And none of those people impressed me. None of them. Sadly, all of my new brothers were like sheep. They would worship whatever society told them to worship.

In fact, if you bothered to look around the room, you would see signatures from many local celebrities. Louise Brooks, Michel Simon, Maurice Chevalier, just to name a few. Local children would run after the poor people halfway through town just so they could get something of theirs. One boy, Henri I believe, stole Jean-Louis Barrault's wallet. He showed it to us. Ironically, it was emptier than most of our wallets. The man had about ten francs and a blue button. That is, of course, if Henri was in fact showing the man's wallet.

But that is neither here nor there.

My siblings rounded up like vultures, stalking their pray. Madeleine, Madeleine, Madeleine… I failed to see anything interesting about that woman. But she was a public figure, and that is what mesmerized my dense brothers.

One of them turned to me, surprised by my lack of enthusiasm.

"What's the matter?" He asked mockingly. "Madeleine is not good enough for you?"

"Not at all," I lied. "I just think that there are people more deserving of my attention."

"Like who?" He asked, and suddenly the crowd turned to me. I coughed and slowly turned to the side, picking names. The first name that came to mind was understandable, but I did not want to say it until I named at least two other actors.

"Foreign actors… actors from America. And not just actors, all entertainers. Like Frank Sinatra, Clark Gable…" My throat dried up just before I said her name.

"Vivien Lei-…"

"Vivien!" The boy's eyes shot up in his hairline. He let out a disgusting cackle. "Look at Adrien! Always looking for Vivien! I swear you never shut up about her!"

I did not mind their teasing. It had become quite common. I gingerly leaned over to the window, letting their laughter and jeers become plain white noise. And outside, in the unkempt garden, I saw him.

Dominic was sitting and chatting to three beautiful ladies, all staring at him with a dim expression. I smiled.

I wanted to run outside, to greet him. Before I could even reach the door, I felt something under me. I raised my hands up in a wave of panic. I seemed to fly through the air briefly. The floor felt cold against my face. I could hear the other boys jeering.

"Watch your step!" One crude boy said to me, pulling his foot from underneath my shin.

I cursed under my breath and limped outside, a small, crimson spot appearing on my right trouser leg. I pulled at it, not wanting the threads to stick to my scraped knee.

* * *

"So I was standing there: alone. The car crash was terrible! The paramedic was lying on the road, a shard of glass protruding his head!"

Dominic explained to the women one event that took place during the war. The three women stared in awe as the man spoke with vigorous passion, a cigarette sticking out of his mouth.

"Suddenly, I feel something under my feet. It was a woman's head! Shards of glass and drops of blood stained her platinum hair! Not too far away, I saw a body; her pregnant body!"

"How awful!" One woman exclaimed, leaning closer to him. His cigarette almost burned her cheek. "Tell me more about it!"

"Well, I look at her, and notice that she's bleeding. No, seriously! There was a puddle of blood between her legs."

The three women gasped in horror.

"I see something moving… and then I think, I can save this baby! I will save this baby!"

He spread his hands out as if he were grabbing something. He was probably trying to visualize the moment.

"So, I ask one man to give me his coat. The woman is screaming, but I tell her that her baby will be alright. So, I reach my hand into-!"

"Wait a second," one woman observed. "You said the woman was decapitated!"

The man gently placed his index finger on the woman's soft lips and released a calming _shhhh_. Who knows how this story would have continued if I hadn't walked out of the house, running towards him. Dominic turned to the women.

"Excuse me, ladies, I have to tend to my protégé. I will tell you about me saving that woman's baby during the fire."

"You said it was after a car crash!" The same woman noted as she stood up to leave. Dominic released a puff of smoke from the corner of his lips.

"Well what do you think happens to cars after they crash? They don't evaporate! Of course there was fire!"

Silenced by this, the woman left with a skeptical frown on her face. The other two women waved to him, giggling like silly schoolgirls.

Dominic half-heartedly waved back and took out a pack of cigarettes.

"Adrien!" He said to me. "Good to see you again!"

I smiled and sat next to him, grasping one thin cigarette and swiftly pulling it out of the carton.

Dominic was a member of the Resistance who, for some reason, took me under his wing. He would later tell me that this was per my sister's request, but I did not know it back then. He was much older than me; I presume he was about twenty years old. He was quite tall and a very slim man, who never hid his love of cigarettes. He taught me to smoke that year. I would usually end up holding the lit cigarette in my mouth, not even inhaling. Inhaling would lead to coughing, and coughing would lead to ridicule. I have been getting enough of that at home. I never truly learned to smoke until I was about sixteen and left for Paris. But I will get to that eventually.

Anyway, Dominic was considered to be a handsome man (I never saw it, but I suppose women found his caramel locks interesting), and a valued member of the Resistance. I remember my sister meeting him occasionally when she was still alive. She considered him a self-righteous moron.

The two of us were getting along incredibly well. Every now and then, he would come and teach me the tricks of his trade; the ten most vulnerable places on the human body (one of those was located on a person's back, and that advise really aided me in my line of work), spinning around a butterfly knife without cutting your finger, speaking to women and sneaking about.

He never came uninvited or without announcing his visit, so whatever this unexpected visit was concerning, I mused, it must have been important.

"How's it going?" He asked casually. Dominic had an essence back then that had the ability to make him look like a stupid teenager even if he were wearing his finest suit and shaking hands with the Prime Minister. The essence faded eventually, I'd like to think that mine did, too.

"Quite alright," I lied as I held the cigarette near the flame of his silver lighter. "It's going well, actually."

"Uh-huh. So why did they hit you this time?" He asked, leaning on the palms of his hand. Before I could respond, I noticed that he was looking at the blood on my trouser leg. I covered it with my hand.

"I tripped."

"Tripped?"

"Yes."

The man took a long drag of his cigarette and I swallowed some excess saliva nervously. That summer I learned how to recognize people who had just started smoking. They spit a lot.

"Ya know," the man started, looking up into the clouds in the azure sky, "It's not good to lie. And you're a terrible liar. You get it from your sister."

_Oh boy, here we go…_

"I first saw her one day in the market… she was hiding behind a wall," he illustrated a box-shaped item with his hands, smoke coming out of the corner of his mouth. "She was hiding from some man she stalked. She would stare at him until he finally looked at her, and then she'd hide. When I asked her what she was doing, she told me that she was looking for a coin she dropped. Imagine that! Every day, she would go to the market and look for that same coin!"

He snorted.

And no, Mundy, I did not pick that up from him. I do not snort.

"I remember her speaking to him once. Once! To think of all the ridiculous things he told her, something about putting the world in her own hands, fighting for her rights… nonsense! And after that, he stopped coming. But she kept coming to that market, hoping to see him. At one time, she even dragged you along!"

"Yes, I remember."

"Yes, Lorraine was a hopeless romantic and a terrible liar." He sighed with irritation. "But I have to admit, she did a pretty good job with you."

A hopeless romantic. I do suppose she was a bit obsessed with the man. But the thing that puzzled me was why Dominic always came to see her, at that exact place, at the exact time, never skipping a day, just to ridicule her of doing the same.

Teenagers are idiots, I thought to myself. They always were and still are.

Don't give me that look, Scout. Calling you an idiot is generous.

"Why are you here?" I asked him. The man sighed and stood up from the rock he was sitting on.

"Well, Adrien, I'm going to America tomorrow."

"…forever?"

"No, not forever!" He spat out the sentence, almost defensively. "Just for… a long time." He shrugged. "I have been hired by some company to gather Intel. The job is not very exciting, not very challenging, but it pays a lot!"

The last part of the sentence was said like an excuse, like he was justifying himself for leaving me. At that point, I did not care that much about his departure. It was sudden, that's all. I picked at the cuticle on my thumb, not looking at him.

"So, uh… I guess I will be… seeing you."

He scratched behind his ear. This was something of a nervous twitch. As he placed his hand on his neck, I couldn't help but to notice the tattoo on his wrist; _La Croix de Lorraine_.

I blinked at him. That one short moment of silence must have felt like an eternity for him, as he suddenly asked me quite an absurd question.

"What do you want from America?"

"I don't want anything!" I said through a laugh. He ticked his head to the left and grinned.

"Are you sure? I can get you a cheeseburger or something…"

The smile stretching across my face suddenly fell, and I found myself gazing in the distance, into the untrimmed hedges of my home's garden. I could hear my siblings talking about the autograph. God, they disgusted me. I wished they would shut up about it once and for all. And then I realized what I wanted, more than anything in the world.

So I gave an absurd answer to an absurd question.

"I want Vivien Leigh."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Vivien Leigh, the actress?" He asked, forming a grimace. "Vivien Leigh…" he posed the statement through a smirk, "the actress?"

"No, Vivien Leigh the abortion specialist, YES I MEAN VIVIEN LEIGH THE ACTRESS!" I snapped, flailing my arms about to make my point perfectly clear.

This made the man smile. He got down on one knee and patted my head. He considered it an action of affection. He sighed, placing his hand over his knee.

"You are nothing like your sister."

And I did not see him for a long, long time. I think it had been over twenty years until I finally saw him. He had changed, he was a reticent, reserved man, completely unlike the Dominic I met, Dominic, my mentor. It almost pains me to say that the first thing I did upon meeting him was shoot him in the head.

Almost. A duty is a duty. And I bet he was proud of what I've become, what he made me.

But I do remember one thing that he left me. It arrived about three months after his departure.

* * *

It was a hot autumn day. It began quite normally, with a meager breakfast and fighting as we were getting ready for school. I must say, the only thing that damn school ever taught me was how utterly idiotic everybody was. But I am not here to talk about the Avignonian education system. I'm here to talk about a package that was delivered to me that day.

It came right after breakfast. It was addressed to Adrien.

"Adrien?" My step-mother asked the postman in a surprised manner while I hid behind a wall, listening in on their conversation. The postman nodded and handed her the package, leaving her to sign some delivery papers. Grunting, she tossed me the package.

It was a small box wrapped in a brown paper bag, a note attached to it with a paperclip.

I was taught to open all of my packages with care.

Please note that I have never received a package before in my entire life.

The havoc that ensued, fueled by a young boy's impatience and crumpling brown paper was too horrifying to be described properly. I will say that my step-mother considered performing an exorcism. I completely disregarded the small white note, and it fell near my bare feet. But the item inside the package was…

My jaw trembled and I had to bite down my fist in order to control my screaming. Inside was a framed photograph. A signed, framed photograph.

And I think you very well know who was on it.

I read her name, written in very feminine handwriting. It suited her well. She looked at me in the sepia photograph, folding her hands on the table and looking at me with her large, intense eyes. A wide smile spread across my face. Madeleine-schmadeleine.

I barely looked over the note that was dropped by my feet. I skimmed over it, one eye constantly focused on the photograph.

_Hello, Adrien. The job in America is serving me well. I tried to get you the real Vivien Leigh, but I could not get her to fit in the package. Her limbs were always sticking out._

I laughed.

_I hope this one will suit you well until I find a bigger box. Also enclosed are signed photograph of Rita Hayward, and-_

I cared not about Rita Hayward. I think I tore her photograph up. Pity, I could have sold it. To this day, I have no idea what else he sent me. I left the shreds of the package discarded and ran upstairs, showing the signed photograph to my pathetic siblings. The jealousy in their eyes as well as the sounds of marvel coming out of them was pleasurable indeed.

_There's no way that's from her!_

_Who did you steal that from?_

_Can I touch it?_

In about two weeks of possessing that framed photograph, it was placed into the hands of every child in town at least twice. For those fourteen days, I felt like a king. All the local celebrities didn't matter anymore. What could possibly compare to Vivien Leigh?

I kept the photograph locked in the third drawer, inside a large mahogany closet. It was inside every night, and only came back out in the morning. I took it everywhere with me, I'd place it in my bag and go outside, secretly hoping that somebody would ask me to see it, hoping that I could stir up some more envy. Some people told me one didn't need rare and exquisite possessions to be happy. Those people were wrong.

Because I was completely crushed when I forgot the photograph one day, only to find it completely ruined after my return.

* * *

That morning I was in a hurry. I overslept and rushed out of the door, not even eating my derisory breakfast consisting of bread and butter. It was a long, grueling day, and I returned dead on my feet.

As I walked up into my room, or our collective room, I could hear faint laughter. I narrowed my eyes. It was probably nothing. Still, a part of me wanted to inspect it. I stepped inside, and the laughter stopped. The boys stood all in a row, their laughter reduced to quiet smirks. It was almost as if they had been told to act serious when I came in. I shook my head. They were not fooling anybody.

Suddenly, my gaze fell on the wide-opened mahogany armoire. (That's wooden closet in Bushman.)

The first thing I noticed was the unhinged drawer. It was forced open and then shut. Gingerly, I walked towards it, the smirks becoming more uncontrollable. My hand reached for the metal handle. At that point, the group gathered around to see the contents of the drawer, or possibly, my expression upon opening it.

I pulled out the compartment and looked down, blood boiling in my ears due to anticipation. I have been used to practical jokes during my lifetime. I have been used to many childish pranks that I have become victim to. But this…

What I saw inside my drawer went far beyond a childish joke. This was pure evil at its worst.

I made no sound when I saw her; my Vivien. The glass of the frame was smashed, the fine, lacquered frame tossed aside to the back of the drawer. They drew on her face; a thick beard, hairs between her eyebrows, a thin moustache. I watched in horror as I witnessed that monstrosity. My eyes turned glassy, and all I could hear was the taunting laughter, echoing around me. I felt as if I had fallen into a pit of despair. Their cackles imprisoned me, and the pointing and laughing occupied my mind.

I felt my fists tighten. It was not sadness that I've felt at that moment. It was pure rage. It blinded me, maybe simply to remove her tainted image away from me. Large red blotches of color flickered before my eyes, making me sick. One boy stepped right behind me, wiping tears off his cruel eyes.

"What's the matter?" He asked sardonically. "Somebody messed with your girlfriend?"

My fists clenched tighter and tighter, as he laughed even lauder than before. I turned to him, feeling my guts twist into knots. For a brief moment, I felt like my mind was up in the clouds, like I was watching my senseless body face the boy. I have never been so infuriated.

And to this day, I have never punched a man that hard.

* * *

It took a lot of his mother's cheap make-up to cover the blackened bruise surrounding his eye. The mocking suddenly stopped. I was respected. I was even feared. But then again, what's the difference between the two?

And that was the second face of Vivien Leigh, the defiled perfection. It somehow taught me that anything could be ruined, even such beauty. And with what? A cheap pen and a sick mind. That experience taught me a few valuable life lessons.

But it mostly taught me that punching somebody in the face until he cried was rather pleasurable.

Sadly, I do not get many opportunities to do so in my profession.

Speaking of my profession, I first began working as a government agent relatively early. I was in my early twenties. But I first started working for the government earlier. I was, what you could consider, a pencil pusher.

I remember that time in Paris. It was so much simpler, compared to now. The beginning of my international career was the most enjoyable period of my life.

Even more so due to the fact that this was the time when I saw the third face of Vivien Leigh.

This face was even more enchanting than the first one. Probably because the face wasn't hers at all.


	3. The Mrs Stevenson

**A/N: **Ah, yes... Spy/ScoutMa. As vanilla and bland as I could possibly make it. I hope you like it.

* * *

**The Mrs. Stevenson**

And of course, this brings us to Paris.

Have I ever told you about Paris? It is a marvelous city, a cultured metropolis where the _crème de la crop_ gathers to discuss matters of the arts, fine cuisine and all the beauty the world has to offer. No doubt the most beautiful and romantic city that calls on to you, sticks with you as a fantastic memory. From the sun that rises in the east, glowing on the magnificent, historic stone buildings, to the highly fashionable people in the streets, it's a city of love and light in its finest! With so many career opportunities for an eager young spy, it was hard not to be thrilled and taken aback by this Siren.

Well… that's one way to look at it.

I spent nine years of my childhood in Paris, and I remember it being a splendid town. I could not wait to visit my muse again. Of course, during my days in Avignon, I have forgotten that this muse of mine was quite expensive, and gave none of its charm and delight for free.

I saved a small fortune, mostly selling the packages I had received from my mentor- I told you about him, please do try and keep up- and I hoped that this would be enough to start a good life in my old town. But sadly, due to inflation, and the fact that astounding quality costs a pretty franc, I soon found that my seemingly large amount of money was enough to keep me alive- just alive, and on a level of a common rat surviving on moldy bread and cheese.

I could try and describe to you what living like that was like, but it would take much too long. The paper-pushing employment I was lucky enough to get did not pay that well to begin with, and I had to deal with a petty landlord with as much heart and compassion as a rattlesnake. I do not wish to speak ill of his people, though. I will say that he certified the stereotype.

Come to think of it, there was a book I read that described my situation at the time quite well. No, it was not _Les Misérables_, though it did get close to that. Have you read _Down and Out in Paris and London _by any chance?

Of course you haven't. I'm frankly surprised half of you can read.

Either way, that is a fairly accurate, though a bit too comical, description of the state I was in. The conditions I was put in were similar as well. Selling my possessions, sleeping on a bed lousy with bedbugs and whatnot… As for the restaurants being unsanitary, I will just have to take his word for it. I could never afford to go in one of them. And frankly, when I could, I stayed away from the kitchen. The griminess was beneath me by the time I made a fortune- a _Parisian _fortune.

But before that I was quite, well… poor.

There was this one instance when I scavenged around my apartment for food. My stomach would usually turn into a cold, gray lump after it had not tasted food in a few days, but on that day, that damn landlord of mine was making a dish that I'd have to make up new letters to pronounce. As strange as this dish was, it did make me hungry. I dragged my body around, desperately looking into any nook and cranny I could find, trying to find food. And then I saw it! It was buried behind a cupboard, a raw carrot. I dusted it off and ate it. I have never been so disgusted in my life.

And then, in my daze of starvation and exhaustion, I clenched my fist and re-enacted the speech Scarlett O'Hara gave, the one where she vowed never to go hungry again. And, I swear, I never did.

You might be laughing at my personal hell. I did not, so somebody has to.

Luckily for me, I learned to live off a dozen francs per day, my only luxury being a small cup of coffee at a small café and a box of cigarettes. I swear, those delightful sticks of nicotine replaced all foodstuffs for me. To this day I am never fully sure if I'm hungry or craving a cigarette.

But this is not the point at the moment. Let me tell you about the café. And you best know the date: The twentieth of May. Around the time when the beauty of the historic town was at its peak, the lovers holding hands in the streets and the birds singing sweet serenades as the first rays of the summer sun peer behind the cold, rock buildings, and yet the spring flowers still grow in full bloom… Oh, Paris.

And the single thing that sent this very day rocketing from beautiful to divine was her face. Yes, gentlemen, this was the day I saw her- my love, my flame! - my wonderful _petite chou-fleur_.

I was sitting in a traditional French café, sitting on one of those traditional French braided metal chairs, ogling at the traditional French delicacies being sold across the streets that I craved but could not afford, due to my traditional French minimum-wage, so I had to settle for drinking a traditional cup of coffee and smoke my fourth cigarette before ten in the morning, as is tradition.

I should point out that this traditional French café, sporting all of the wondrous traditional goods France had to offer, was run by Italians.

"Aaaaah, signor Chaput, what-a pleasant delight! You need-a anything with that-a cup-a coffee, ya? Mamma can-a get you some-a fresh croissants!"

Mario pronounced them 'crah-sants'.

Strange thing; nobody in Paris is actually from Paris. The population consists of foreigners and people from other, smaller cities. You find me a genuine Parisian and I shall eat one of my many hats.

It would not be the worst I've eaten.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid I'm still tight on the budget," I said, trying not to salivate at the thought of the feathery pastry. The waiter shook his head and moved his upper lip in disapproval, shaking his admirable, sleek moustache.

"Oh, _mio Dio._ You-a Frenchmen and-a your-a saving the budget! Back in Italia, we ate," he smacked his forefinger against the palm of his hand to bring a certain accent to his countrymen's numerous ways of spending money: "We-a drank fancy wine. We-a brought the ladies out and dressed them up decently, no? Eat, signore, at least! You would be a disgrace to Italia!"

He spoke the last words loudly, pinching some air between his fingers and shaking it at me.

"I will when I get my first decent payment," I explained. "Now, is sugar still free?" I asked, reaching for the pear-shaped glass container with a stretched, metal snout. The waiter gave it to me, still shaking his head.

"You-a becoming skin and-a bones, signor. It's not good being skin and-a bones. Not here and not in Italia! I see all these-a ladies walking around-a town, not a single one with a decent _culo_. I swear, every-a one of these ladies has tiny narrow hips! Mamma says that is-a God's way of saying not to have-a the babies! Mario wants lots-a the babies! Cute, mushy little _basterdi_…"

The man continued to ramble on about a topic that I did not enjoy or care about. I slowly poured the sweet crystals into my less than satisfying beverage, looking around the café. A few people, almost as poor as I was, were chatting and discussing the prices of cheese. I had not the stomach to listen about food, so I looked through them, into the streets.

And there, gentlemen, is where I saw her beautiful face.

I know it was not of Vivien Leigh, but that face had the exact same effect on me. Hell, it was even greater! To this day, I remember the image of Scarlett O'Hara, and I can describe it briefly in short, banal sentences. Medium-length jet-black hair. Large, mysterious sapphire eyes. Skin as white as porcelain, luscious lips as red as rubies. But this face was something completely different, as John Cleese would say. I cannot recall it as I recall Vivien's image. I cannot even begin to describe it. She appears before my eyes, a blurry image on the silver screen. She ran down the street, clutching somebody's hand. Her eyes fixed on me, her delicate lips brought together, expanding ever so slightly in something that just could have been a smile. Her eyes gave out worry, shifting from left to right before they stopped on me- Oh lucky me! - only for her to turn her head and move away.

Shall I compare her to a summer's day? A calm and soothing sight that took my breath away? Or was that slimily too banal, too predictable of me? But when struck by such exquisite beauty, man tends to fly towards the most tasteless of clichés. And lo, I used about three of them already. I believe I even rhymed. Shudder away the desolate attempt of mine at describing her and bear with me. I couldn't possibly compare her to the sun that shone softly on her smooth face, leaving small shadows like brushstrokes under the ridges of her collar bones. The sun might be a good metaphor for warmth and the necessity of living, but it is never pleasant to look at. I could not compare her to a diamond, for its cold, lifeless gleam paled in comparison with the shine in her eyes. And summer's days are much too short; they fade away in a flicker. But her image, the image that left me with my mouth agape gormlessly as I basked in the warmth suddenly surrounding me, it will never fade, never dim from my mind. It will play in my head, her passing through. It will play in my head every time I think of her, much like a short film with her in the lead. Vivien left me like that as well. But Vivien on screen was one thing. This creature- this agonizingly, indescribably beautiful creature – was right there, right in front of me!

As you know, I have been in many strange situations during my long career. I murdered people, I thieved and lied. For Christ's sake, I once jumped from a burning airplane while holding the priceless Great Mogul diamond in my hands as I fought off London spies (which, if I may say, are very incompetent and reek of dark ale). But never, in my entire life, have I felt my heart race that much.

I felt the sugar pour down my pant leg, but chose to ignore it.

"_Mamma mia! _Don't pour it like-a that! You're getting it everywhere!" The waiter said, snatching the small container away from my hands, paralyzed with something that could only be described as complete and utter bliss.

And at that point, as I saw the fabric of her summer frock drift in the light breeze, I knew that I had to follow her. Mesmerized, I pushed, not moved, but pushed my chair away and began making my way towards that wonderful creature. As I stood up, the sugar fell off my suit and onto the café floor. Mario muttered something under his breath as he watched me leave.

"_Mamma mia_, you were-a right. I should have stayed in old country and made cannelloni."

I wish it to be known that I do not wish to ridicule the man's accent. I am just demonstrating what he said to me, _verbatim_. I do not mean to insult or make Italians seem ridiculous in any way.

They do a fine enough job of that on their own.

To my woe, the lady I saw was moving fast, being dragged by some man quite hastily. I sped up, pushing through the crowds. I had no idea what I was doing. It's funny how a brain works. In the end, a passionate, silver-tongued poet and a pathetic adolescent have the same ardor for the subject of their interest, and more or less the same ways of acquiring it for themselves. All I could see as I walked past the crowd was a speck of her: her dress, her hair, something to keep me on track.

I followed them for a good five minutes before I stopped dead in my tracks. _What am I doing?_ I thought. Chasing this woman I didn't even know? This wasn't right. This wasn't how you chase somebody down. With the corner of my eye I saw a small shop, several fine, leather bags hanging on a rack outside. A stupid move on the manager's part, really.

I turned to a merchant and pointed at the man, dragging away the lady of my heart.

"Sir!" I said loudly, hiding my hand behind my back, "I think that man stole something from you!"

The man looked briefly at the rack, immediately noticing a missing handbag. And then the most amazing chase happened, involving a greyhound, two policemen and a shopkeeper who could do a double summersault whilst shouting profanities at a supposed thief.

But I'm fairly certain that you are not interested in hearing that part. And if you are, I'm not interested in retelling it. I will say that the chase finally concluded when the shopkeeper pinned down the man my love was with. The man tried to squirm himself free, all while asking for an explanation in English. _Of course_ he was foreign, I mused. _Of course_ the splendor that held his hand was American. You did not get to witness her type in Paris.

"Lemme go!" He shouted, trying to free himself, squealing with pain as the greyhound chewed on his left leg. "I didn't do nothin'!"

"Where ees eet?!" The shopkeeper asked through his teeth. "Where ees my bag, you criminal scum?!" The two policemen watched the two, seemingly enjoying the show. The American's eyes widened.

"What?! I didn' steel noth-!"

As he reached out his hand to protest, he took out a leather handbag. It swung in front of his eyes, to his surprise.

"This…" He stuttered in panic: "This isn't mine!"

"If I may," I said to him, "I suppose the fact that it isn't yours is only making you more of a suspect."

The American shot pure fury into my soul. I was too busy internally beaming with pride to care.

"I didn't steal it!" He suddenly turned to the woman, shaking her head at him. She looked so lovely when she was furious.

"I swear, I didn't!"

At that point, my love sighed and opened her mouth to speak. Her voice reminded me of a thousand violins played by an assembly of angels.

"God damn it, Charlie, if I knew you were gonna steal crap again, I woulda never let you take me here!"

It seems that those violinists were very, very tone-deaf.

The man was cuffed and pushed away by a law enforcer that suddenly decided that he gave a damn about the robbery (which, if I may say, was a brilliant execution on my behalf). As she followed her husband, she gently brushed past me.

"_Pah-don_," she said to me in the curtest way possible. As she butchered the impromptu apology she managed to send me the lividest expression I had ever seen. It was as though she absolutely despised the world and all of its men. And that's when I finally realized that I was in love.

* * *

Charles Stevenson. Aged thirty-nine. Married. A couple of minor offences, stealing, fraud and forgery. A petty criminal all in all.

With a sigh, I stared at the typewriter and began dotting down some more minor crimes, just enough to keep him around a tad longer, just enough to keep his lovely wife around. I puffed out some smoke and began writing something about him stabbing a man.

There have been many immoral, despicable things I have done. Some of them I even regret.

But not this one.

After all, all was fair in love and war. With a smile, I added 'assisted homicide' to the list.

Satisfied with what I've done, I pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and admired it briefly. The penal system would have a field day with this one. I chuckled.

Suddenly, the door of my small office creaked open, and I found myself stuffing the forged criminal record inside a broken desk drawer. I had to slam it shut with my foot, so when the visitor came in, she saw me with my foot on the desk. I looked at her sheepishly.

"Uh, hi," my angel said to me. "Can I… can I talk to you by any chance?"

I blinked at her, my mouth shut tight to prevent my lower jaw to unhinge itself when I saw her face once more. With a nod, I pointed to a seat on a short stool in the corner of the room. She smiled and sat down.

In this light she did not look as radiant as she did that morning. I saw soft wrinkles around her tired eyes, a few hairs of silver on the side of her head. Her nails were extremely short, and I noticed her slouching. I had seen many things more beautiful than that sight before me. The only difference was that I did not care for those. I cared for her.

She squinted at the yellow light, produced by a cheap light bulb, which only had the purpose of blinding anyone it came in contact with. Clearing her throat, she shifted in her seat to an upright position. I hastily did the same.

"Listen," she started, my sweet, gawky love: "My… my husband is locked up right now. Temporarily. I swear, I have _no_ idea why he stole that handbag. I mean, that's gotta be like a thousand dollars worth!"

I smiled nervously at first before converting my expression in an understanding frown.

"I just wanted to say… thank you."

My eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"You know, he- he did have a small criminal history. He, uh… he used to pick-pocket people, cut some shipments to steal a package or two and sell its contents for jacked up prices and whatnot, but…"

I listened to her intently, not making a sound. She seemed quite ambivalent while she spoke of her husband's past crimes, like she did not care for them at all.

"I honestly thought he changed, ya know? I really thought he did." She pressed her smooth hand against her chest, trying to fish out some sympathy out of me. God smite me, it was working.

"But now he does this and…" She looked down at her high-heeled shoes and chuckled in a hollow tone. "He actually brought me here to prove that he could be a decent man. And ya see how it turned out? I'm… I'm not even sure how he paid for the trip. Seriously, everything in this town costs like a billion dollars and he was able to afford everything I wanted!"

I couldn't help but to smile at her hyperbole.

"I… If I'm not needed to testify or anything… I'm leaving tomorrow. So I just wanted to let you know."

"You…" I started, afraid that she might leave before I had the chance to speak to her. "You are leaving so soon?"

"If I'm not needed, yes. I'm actually thinking of leaving tomorrow."

"Without your husband." I said the words more like a question but a statement. She gently nodded and stood up.

"Thank you for… catching up with him."

I saw the tails of her summer dress swaying from-side-to-side in a hypnotizing dance as she began walking away. I placed my hands on the desk and jolted up, speaking louder than I probably should have.

"If you only have one day left here…!" I spoke shrilly. She gingerly turned her head towards me. I bit my tongue.

"I can… I would be more than happy to give you a… tour of the town…"

_Too soon, Adrien, too soon._

With a dazzling smile, she shook her head.

"You are sweet." The sentence was told softly. That must have been her way of letting me down easily. It did not feel like that. It felt like a harpoon through the windpipe.

"Thank you," she said and closed the door behind her. Dazed and confused, I sat at my desk. I stared blankly into a stain on the wall for about a full minute before I jerked my desk drawer open. Taking out the sheet of paper, I began crossing off some of the man's offences with a pen I found. The man did not need a long sentence, I supposed.

Losing her was punishment enough.

* * *

But let us fast-forward a couple of years into the future. I was recognized for my impeccable work and promoted after my superiors found out that I took part in handling a dangerous criminal who kidnapped small children and sold them each for a bottle of beer.

(…well, _maybe _I left in a couple of small, uh… exaggerations of the truth in monsieur Stevenson's criminal record. To think my career as a world-renown emissary began as a ruse. Quite fitting to my job description, really.)

Things were beginning to look up. I was no longer paid in peanuts, but cold, hard cash. I bought myself a modern apartment. I acquired a couple of fine suits. I began smoking quality cigarettes. And eating! And the food I ate did not consist of raw carrots… I shudder at the memory.

One day, I was admiring the view from my hotel room window. I was in a small town of Boston, just finishing up on a case. I would tell you about it, but you would not live long enough to think of it a second time. It was indeed a glorious day, my daydreaming interrupted by a quick, almost impatient knock on the door.

_"Housekeeping!"_

I sighed and checked to see if my butterfly knife was still in its place. Unexpected visitors tended to be… rather unpleasant. I walked straight past a bottle of complimentary wine I received from my place of business for a job well done. I did not start drinking it yet, I waited for the tannins to settle.

I came up to the door and opened them, only to be greeted by a mop. Or rather, a mop steeled in a maid's cart that hid the person's face. She began speaking to me, holding up a few towels.

"Hello sir," she said coyly. "Housekeeping?"

I checked my watch and clicked my tongue.

"It's a bit late, don't you think?"

"Well, we let the penthouse guests sleep in. We start cleaning the lower rooms around eight," she babbled as she walked in past me. "We do these apartments around eleven. I suppose this is your first day here."

"Yes," I said, looking at the back of her short, blue skirt. "It is."

"Well, sir, you are going to enjoy yourself here-" she turned to me, mid-sentence. Her face suddenly became stiff. As did mine.

Just above those towels, there was her tortured beauty. I examined her face, the blemishes on her milky skin, the narrowness of her large eyes, the redness of her pale face, the frizzy locks of her perfectly groomed hair, all the way down to the small gap in her perfect teeth, revealed as her lips parted in bemusement.

"Uhm…" she mumbled. "Sir, have we met somewhere before?"

My beating heart already knew the answer before I dared to even guess.

"Mrs. Stevenson, I presume?"

Her eyes widened as she pointed at me.

"You! You're that guy! That French guy, at the…thing."

God bless my sweet, brisk love. I nodded, confirming the assumption that I was _that French guy at the thing_. A couple of moments later, we began talking. At first we talked about how her life were today (alone, living with a horde of kids), what she did for a living (cleaning rooms at a four-star hotel- she said it with a hint of hostility, knowing it was a stupid question on my part), if she enjoyed fine wine ("Does the ten-dollar thing at the store count?"), and if she did, did she have time to sample some ("Sure. The only rooms I have left to clean are the honeymoon suites. And those crazy kids never leave the room.")

And quite soon, we were sipping wine on the balcony, discussing past events. As she giggled at my sad attempts at making jokes and almost spilled the contents of her glass a number of times, I noticed that she was not a very professional person. It was almost as if she were my polar opposite. And yet, in a way, we were very much alike. In those short twenty minutes that meant the beginning of the rest of my life, I found out mush about her, except one thing.

"So, tell me," I asked, lighting a cigarette. "What is your name? Your first name, I mean."

She smiled at me, her face flushed and her head tilting to and fro. She commented something about needing a cup of coffee.

As she cleared her throat, I began imagining what her name could have been. It must reflect her, I pondered. It must be as tender and sweet as the grass blades on a warm, summer evening. It had to be powerful, as a rising golden flame. Her name must be something truly beautiful, something to match her charm and loveliness. As bright as the moonlight, as tender as a soft kiss, and as rare and exotic as a diamond.

"Winifred."

For a second, I was unable to say anything.

For a second, I thought I was going to die. Die laughing at this magnificent girl's horrible name.

"I apologize," I said to her as she nursed on her wine; "I cannot call you…that."

She gave me a look only a devil could and shrugged.

"All right. What could you call me?"

I clasped my hands, considering my options.

"Well, my dear, that depends… do you like Winnie…" I bit my lip as some air flew through my nose in a desperate attempt to laugh.

"Or… Freddie?"

Luckily I ended up calling her none of those things. I visited my darling long after my stay at the hotel was over. I absolutely adored her. I adored my little horrendously-named beauty. She was a saint, sticking with me no matter how obnoxious I was. Only a handful of people were able to do so. Mrs. Stevenson… she was my everything. She was my light, my love…

She was my Leigh.


	4. The Obituary

**The Obituary**

I am afraid that the next face of Vivien Leigh was not as charming or dear as the previous ones I had mentioned. It was still as fair, still as perfect as I remember first seeing it in that crowded theatre.

But that image imprinted on the black-and-white newspaper, presenting her matured features and her deep, mysterious eyes looking away from the camera and to the side, was nowhere near the charming Scarlett O'Hara whose beauty I had first fell victim to. The grimy, saturated portrait had a grim quality to it, and the headline above it made my jaw drop in shock. And suddenly, I realized that she was no longer my fair Lady Olivier.

It happened a year ago, I remember. I was employed in this organization already. I had done my work fairly well, setting an example for you nitwits, but nothing further than that. My pursuit of excellence was present and ongoing, but after months of torment, I had failed to move an inch from my current reputation of being a renowned Spy and absolutely nothing else. This did not satisfy me.

Popularity does not equal quality.

Mostly I wanted to distance myself from a man thought to be the finest Spy ever to have set foot in the Team Fortress Organization. Oh, how I loathed that man. I always have. Not because of some petty jealousy, not because of my delusion that I was better than him. God forbid, I know that I couldn't be. I may be an arrogant fool but I'm no idiot. I hated him because of his luck. He was practically the bright-red feather atop Fortuna's hat. Ah, and his life was so melo-fucking-dramatic. And yet- lo and behold, the God among men! - he managed to overcome all odds. The first time I heard of his past his status seemed explainable. No wonder the people dubbed him the best. They felt sorry for him. The poor, easily misguided fools.

Now, as a professional, and as my competition, I respect the man. On occasion (a very rare occasion), I even admire him. But as a judgmental man…

I'm not saying I hate him.

I'm saying I hate him _so_ much.

And nobody could measure with him. Nobody dared. Also, the man had many rivals, my mentor included. He might have been equal with him, if he did not have one gruesome trait: his origin.

_"He is a brilliant agent… from Marseilles."_

_"He is highly appreciated… in Marseilles."_

_"He is the brightest man we have… here, in Marseilles."_

And that simple ten-letter word crippled him. It stunted his chances of becoming the best. And every time I heard those mock-praises, all I could hear was this:

_"He runs very fast… for a man with one leg."_

And if Marseilles did that to him, what chance did I have, a poor orphan boy from Avignon? Alas, the 'orphan' part had often brought sympathy upon the fairer sex, but my magnetic attraction did little for my international success. I had done my job well, but nothing too extraordinary. Nothing worthy of that overrated, disgusting, filthy, mangy cur that always kept me one fucking step behind…!

Ah.

I do believe I am grinding my teeth. I am so sorry you needed to witness that. This rant of mine does have something to do with the story at hand (my hatred for the man who shall not be name does not, but I decided to put it in). For you see, that one day, that one tragic day, I received my rush of motivation. And this motivation dared me to defeat every single one of my predecessors. Sadly, the image I had to witness, the news I had to read were hardly worth it.

It was the eight day of July.

It was a Saturday morning. I remember it because that is the day when the battle starts at nine rather than seven o'clock in the morrow. I managed to sleep half-decently that night, those extra two hours acting as a blessing. I couldn't have even functioned if it weren't for them. I'm not entirely sure what the matter was, but I suppose my night terrors returned that day. Either that, or it was simply too hot in the base.

I sauntered through the base, listening to the quiet around me. It was so calm and serene that I could hear myself blinking. I suppose you haven't been up yet, Scout. But this was your typical calm before the storm.

I brewed myself a fresh cup of coffee and untied the hemp knot securing this week's newspapers. I grabbed the one on top and lazily flipped through it. The doctor would want the obituaries, I mused as I flipped the pages back. The kid would prefer the comics. I suppose the Peanuts were at a higher standard than now. Still, they were _almost_ comedy.

A couple of pages later, I noticed that I was only barely skimming the headlines. My head was still light. But the image I saw at that moment cleared up my vision completely. My morning lethargy had vanished. I looked at her. This was her, this was my Vivien. But something was off. Her photograph was saturated in a manner photographers edit their work whenever they wish to reflect a tragedy behind it. It reminded me of those photographs of Kennedy that were out in the papers a couple of years ago. The same distant expression, the same lifeless smile.

As I saw the headlines, my jaw dropped. Not with distress, but with surprise. And I recall not even reading the tinted headline all the way through.

_Vivien Leigh found dead…_

_…found dead…_

_…dead…_

It's… funny.

All the worst things in life start with the letter 'D'. Death, disease, defeat…

I felt sick. This woman had grown on me. I lived my life idolizing her, admiring her work, living in a delusion that I would once get to meet her, to see this exquisite beauty in person. A part of me thought that she would never die. But she did, and it was anticlimactic, at best, to find out that it could go by in a flicker.

I brought myself to read more about her death. She died of tuberculosis, of all things. Her lungs filled with fluid and she suffocated. She suffered. She was fifty-three years of age.

I never knew the woman; we never even spoke or made contact. But there I was, completely devastated (another word starting with a 'D', I see). She had contracted the illness near the end of the war. I had no idea. Truth be told, I never thought much about her. If I wasn't in the mood to read the news that morning, her death might have passed me by. I would continue to live on, unaffected by her. I would not care about the fact that splendor could evaporate in an instant, and leave behind only dust and ashes. Her image seemed to fragment itself into small grains, that later flew away, carried by the wind. Just like that… it was over.

And the worst part was, I considered myself an admirer of that woman. But the truth was, up until that day, I paid little or no attention to her ventures. I had forgotten her.

And suddenly, the melancholy slipped away, and was replaced by pure anger. If such a talent had gone unnoticed just until her death, what chance did I have? What chance did I have? If I died tomorrow, who would remember me? A mediocre government agent was nothing to mourn. You could get those a dime-a-dozen. I ignored my teammates, you, as you walked past me, muttering greetings and incoherent groans. I lit my cigarette and stared into the inflamed ash at the end. As it became dry, it fell on the newspaper. There it would lay, and nobody would care.

That day I decided that I would make something of myself. I would continue to battle until my last breath. I would be remembered decades past my departure. If I couldn't protect Vivien from being forgotten, I could protect myself.

And I had to protect and support my ill-named love.

The battle that day was gruesome. All sympathy escaped my actions, if there was any to begin with. The end of my blade flew into their backs, and an odd sense of accomplishment overcame me as I felt their blood seep through my gloves. Bodies began piling up, and their expressions begged for mercy. Their glassy eyes looked up into mine. I knew that they would remember this moment, quite literally, until they died.

It was the shortest fight I remember.

As I returned to my quarters, I sat on my bed and looked into the distance, the surge of anger slowly making its way out of my system and being replaced with rationalization, and the sense of my own mortality. One day, another man might hold a knife against my severed throat. Will he have enough decency to let me look away, so that my last earthly sight wouldn't be of his grotesque grimace? And if I managed to find myself in such a situation, would I be considered a legend, a fallen hero? Or would I be considered an incompetent oaf?

I did not cry that night. But I would have, if I had one speck of humanity left in me.

* * *

The group looked up at the Spy, smoking his long, thin cigarette while he eyeballed the blank television screen.

"Wow," the Sniper said, holding out the remote flatly on his hand. The Frenchman sniffed, only to clear his nose. With a smirk, he snatched the remote and flicked its on switch. He then laid his arm over the arm rest of the sofa.

"And that's why we're watching _A Streetcar Named Desire_," he announced as the turned on the set, just as the commercials before the film began. The Scout groaned.

"Aw, no fair!" He extended his arm out to the Spy. "I totally wanted to watch _Psycho_! Why do we always have to watch what you wanna watch?!"

"Listen, kid," The Soldier started, "You make up a long story on why you admire Grace Kelly or whoever the hell acts in his movies, and we'll watch _Psycho_."

The Scout considered the idea briefly before waving his hand at the television screen and lazily lounged on the couch.

"'S not worth it."

"I actually don't mind," the Engineer said as the jingle on-screen made everyone aware that Winston tastes good like a (_click, click_) cigarette should. "My lil' girl loves that movie. She knows it by heart."

"Pepper or Sarah?" The Sniper asked, turning his head to him.

"Sarah. Pepper hates black-and-white movies. She says they-"

"Make her nauseous, yes. You… you told me that before," he said, gingerly averting his eyes from the Texan.

"But man, Spook really knows how to tell a story," the Texan began, trying to fill in the gap between the repetitive commercials and the main picture.

"I know," the Sniper responded. "The last time he was this worked up over anything was when he figured out how to stab people with an icicle."

"Nah," the Texan clicked his tongue. "I think it was back when he discovered Bob Dylan."

"God, don't remind me!" The Sniper buried his head in his hands. He lowered the tone of his voice just low enough for the Spy not to hear them. "One fucking morning I wanted to wake up without him singing _Highway 61_ in the shower."

"What was that, Victor?" The Spy asked, moving his head away from the screen.

"Eh… nothin'."

The Frenchman stared at him with furrowed eyebrows before he returned to watching the screen, anxious for the film to start. He began tapping his foot, and act everyone noticed but did not care to warn him about. The Texan let out a short laugh.

"If- if ya think Dylan is bad, you obviously haven't woken up every morning for a year to your daughter singin'-!"

"_I Can't Get No Satisfaction_," the Sniper ended, looking at the screen and wringing his hands tautly.

"Huh. I 'spose I told you a lot about Pepper."

"Y-yes. Yes you did."

"Shhh!" The Spy raised up his index finger at them as the Warner Bros. logo appeared on screen. The mercenaries smiled at the Frenchman, looking at the television screen intensely. He could be such a child sometimes.

"Wait a sec!" The Scout spoke up at what the Spy considered to have been the most inappropriate moment. This was, of course, any moment when Vivien Leigh was presented. "You said five faces of that… Viv… whatshername."

The Medic quirked up an eyebrow. "Seriously? Her name is right there on display…" he pointed.

"Yeah, well, anyway… you only told us about four faces."

And the group suddenly turned their eyes towards the Spy, who desperately tried not to give in to their demands and tell them the last image of her.

* * *

You see, I did not want to tell them. It was too private. After that little fiasco, I realized that movies and photographs wouldn't be enough to keep her in my memory. I needed something, something to keep close to my heart. I needed a personal item, like those boots I keep tucked in my closet remind me of my sister. More specifically, a moment when my aunt decided that Lorraine needed some work done.

_"Alright, the first thing you need to do is take off those horrible boots."_

_"But-!" She protested behind her book, the Bible (under which she hid a copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover, _as I would later discover). _

_"I like these boots!"_

_My aunt waved her hand at her, completely ignoring me. I was sitting on the table and eating candy, bored out of my mind._

_"Look, if you want to impress that man you're pursuing, you will have to make an effort. And I will help you do so."_

_"You really don't have to do that."_

_"I know... That's what makes me so nice." She smiled. "You see, whenever I see someone less fortunate than I- and let's face it, who isn't less fortunate than I?- my tender heart tends to start to bleed."_ _She grabbed a brush off her vanity desk and walked up to my sister, curling herself up defensively. "And when someone needs a make-over, I simply have to take over, I know- I know!"_

_She said the last part loudly when she put her hand atop Lorraine's shoulder as the girl attempted to stand up and run away._

_"…exactly what they need," she finished as the girl gave in to her demands, rolling her eyes. 'Help', she mouthed at me. My aunt held her hairbrush up and made a stroke through her curly, brown hair._

_"And even in your case-!"_

_She looked at her bare palm as the brush got stuck inside Lorraine's locks._

_"…though it's the toughest case I've yet to face…"_

Huh? Ahem...

Excuse me, my mind tends to wander. Where was I? Ah, yes! The boots. Those remind me of Lo. My Ambassador reminds me of my love, my dream. But then again, everything reminds me of her. Sadly, Vivien does not have such a special place in my heart. But, I supposed, she deserved a special place near it.

So I looked at my weapon, thinking of ideas to make it happen, to keep her in my memory just a little bit longer.

So I did what I did.

And almost immediately I knew that I had made a giant mistake.


	5. The Gun

**A/N: **It appears that adding Wicked references here is no longer an annoying quirk. It's a challenge I've set for myself. Well, enjoy the last chapter!

* * *

**The Gun**

"Who the hell is this?"

My darling asked as she held up my weapon. Immediately I regretted bringing the damn gun with me. In my foolish, angry confusion, I managed to forget throwing it away. I blame my teammates. It was their suggestion to use only our festive weapons during the last battle of the season. I think I convulsed with disgust every time I pulled the trigger. And that face… that horrible, disfigured face that stared back at me, taunting me as it laid engraved on the barrel. When the battle was over I idiotically packed it. I threw it inside my leather suitcase with little care, anxious to get on my flight to Boston, anxious to see her.

And now my darling was sitting across from me, robed and slippered, her hair a mess of tangles and hairspray residue. She had never looked more enchanting.

To be fair, my brain might have been making that connection simply because she was holding a deadly firearm in her small yet able hands. Her index finger slowly caressed the fine abrasions over the black metal. I couldn't help but to cringe at the image myself as I looked upon it once more. Don't get me wrong, it is a brilliant work of art, but the subject portrayed couldn't have been done in the worse way. They did manage to get the eyes almost right- I instructed them to pay attention to that part, to make them seem as mysterious as possible. Alas, so little they could do with a carving tool, and yet it presented the most presentable attribute of the figure's visage. The hair looked nothing like hers, and the model was clothed in the lewdest of garments, a one-piece swimsuit of sorts. The mistletoe held above her head was completely unnecessary, as the weapon already had a small, red Christmas light taped to the bottom of the barrel. I was sickened, enraged by what I saw, the defilement of my love and the twisting of my wishes and specific orders.

Winifred shared my dislike, as I could see by her troubled expression. The issue to her was not the fact that the figure was portrayed horribly, but that the figure wasn't of her.

"Who the hell is this, Adrien?" She asked once again, pointing the weapon at me. I kept a calm expression, still somewhat relieved that her finger wasn't leaning on the trigger. It was instead running over the handle, across the rosewood inlays. I was unable to say a thing. Should I say nothing and invoke her wrath, or tell the truth and face disbelief along with humiliation.

I should have tossed that weapon away as soon as I had the slightest chance.

But _nooooo_…

My mind refused to stay lucid for even the shortest period of time. I think I might have contracted what the Scout has. I can't stop myself from going on and on about irrelevant things.

Even now, Dear Reader. Here I am talking about the Scout while his counterpart's lovely mother is pointing a fully loaded gun at me and demanding an explanation that I could not give at the time being.

"It's…" I gulped, trying hard not to seem dishonest. "It's nobody."

Her well-kempt eyebrow shot up, and now I noticed that her expression wasn't of fury, but of puzzlement.

"Nobody…" she repeated, almost mocking me. I dislike being mocked, but I did not hold it against her. She probably deserved to mock me, to shoot me at that moment. Luckily, she didn't. Instead a weak smile crept over her lips as she lowered her hand. She did not loosen her grip on the weapon, mind you. I was still on pins and needles.

"Look, you… you don't have to lie to me. Who is she?"

As I said nothing a strange force came over her, wiping away all the cover off her face as she made her way across the room and sank into her sofa. The piece of furniture, the large, bulky, beige object seemed more vibrant than her at that moment. A sigh escaped her, and suddenly I wished that I had said something.

"Look, I'm not naïve." She looked at me, and I knew that I hurt her. Not intentionally, of course, I could never do that to my love. I sat next to her, my eyes shifting rapidly from her tired expression to the gun in her hand. She let me nest by her, and continued to speak.

"I know you have to meet a lot of…" She huffed, trying to force the words out of her mouth. "…women in your line of business. And I… I know that you encounter them, because it's part of your job description. I never liked that, ya know? But I tried not to say anything because it's really not up to me, ya know?"

She looked at me, my poor dove, and I suddenly felt as if I were falling down, into the Earth's core. She sighed and continued, her voice dragging on for decades.

"The only thing that gave me comfort in that entire thing is the fact that you said that I was the only one that mattered to you. The only one you would be faithful to. I figured," she chuckled painfully; "I figured that if I was… the only one you cared about I could handle you being away so much. After you showed me that gun… I was so happy! I knew that you cared. At least, I thought that you cared. And now I see this, and-!"

Her voice cracked as she held the weapon up. It was not the sign of a weep, it was just her faith in me audibly scattering.

"If there is another woman, tell me. Tell me so I don't have to live in the delusion that you still care for me. Come on, Adrien, please!"

She held my hand tightly. In her voice, I could hear a plead, and an almost pathetic, desperate one.

"Tell me, Adrien… who is she?"

Stuck between a rock and a hard place. I finally knew what this expression meant. With a long inhale, I swallowed my pride along with some hot saliva and spat out the words. The name was so powerful that saying it made me slouch, my elbows resting on my thighs and my head bowed down in shame.

"Vivien Leigh."

The horror of her silence filled me with discomfort, and this discomfort came second only to the one that ensued practically a second later, along with her burst of laughter.

"Bullshit!" She said through tears. "If you're gonna make stuff up like that…"

"I am not, Winnie… Fred… I am not, my love! I swear!"

I tried to sound as collected and polite as I possibly could. Emphasis on _tried_. She squinted at the gun, a cackle still bursting through from time to time.

"Well… it looks like her if you tilt your head to the side… and possibly have a few drinks beforehand…"

"Please, Winifred, you have to believe me."

"Oh come on, why the hell would ya engrave a dead actress' face on your gun? And why would you do it… badly?"

I snatched the gun from her hands and grabbed it tightly, finally drawing her attention. With the corner of my eye, I noticed the figure smirking at me. I hated it. I absolutely hated it.

"This thing… the actress was the one who helped me become who I am. I grew up watching her, I was smitten by her long before I met you! This was supposed to be my way of honoring her, but those incompetent fools turned this into a disgrace! But if you mind it, my darling, my love, I will throw it away like common garbage!"

To make myself perfectly clear, it threw the gun on the ground. Before I could continue my speech, it fired.

The bullet flew past us and into a couch cushion. The bang was quite loud, but Winifred did not even twitch. Instead she blinked at the gun, not moving at all. I held her hands in mine as I concluded my point.

"Yes. I do admit, there was another woman I was completely, helplessly in love with. And yes, that is her on the gun. But I would give her up in a second if she jeopardized you… us. If she were to-!"

"Oh, shut up, Adrien!" She said as she planted a kiss on my lips, shutting me up. "You could've said that first."

"You-!" I began, but was unable to complete a sentence before I managed to remove her hands off my balaclava. "You… don't mind that it's her."

"Of course not! Hell, I find it kinda cute. I always thought you were above those crushes."

"I suppose not," I shrugged.

I can't exactly recall what we said to each other immediately after that. I know one of us pointed out the steaming hole in the couch cushion and claimed that somebody should do something about that. She exclaimed that she had seen worse and simply flipped in on the other side. So simple, my dear. I believe the entire issue was over and done with as she placed her head on my lap, making small circles on my thigh with the tip of her index finger. She was still looking at the gun, laying on the floor.

"You gonna pick that thing up anytime soon?"

I shook my head. "Maybe to throw it away later…"

"So what's up with you and Vivien, huh?"

"She was a talented, beautiful woman."

"As beautiful as me?" She teased, glancing up at me.

"Almost."

I smiled as she let my fingers run through her long, dark hair.

"You know, Winifred, nobody could really understand what I saw in Vivien. I suppose I only saw her as a figure of true female beauty before I was clever enough to realize that she didn't even come close. I remember that even my sister…"

"There you go again."

I looked down at her, a puzzled expression on my face that seemed to amuse her. She moaned as she stretched out her cramped hand and began explaining the matter.

"You bring her up all the time when you're with me."

"I'm… I'm sorry, my mind tends to wander."

It does, really. Maybe I should consider taking that medication the Scout has been taking lately to keep him focused. What was it called again? Something…lin. Oh well, it's bound to occur to me sooner or later.

"Don't apologize," she said, turning to me. "I just find it funny. It's like a game now; I keep count of all the times you mention her. You're up to sixty-seven."

My nose wiggled up at the number. I knew it was high but I had no idea how high.

"I'm sorry… there's just something that reminds me of her. The way I act around you is fairly similar to the way she acted when she met… when she met this young man whose name I forgot."

I did not forget it. Oh God how I wish I did.

"Tell me, tell me!" she said anxiously, raising up from my lap and adjusting herself up into a seated position. "I want to know if awkwardness runs in the family."

I was on the edge of telling her something that would probably not be fitting of a gentleman, but I kept myself calm. My lady wanted a short tale, she'd receive a tale.

* * *

Lorraine tossed her book away and lay on her bed, slamming her legs on the brown duvet.

"Pré-Far, life is cruel! Life is so unforgivably cruel!" She yelped.

"No shoes on the furniture," I instructed her, and she plopped her legs back on the floor. Her torso remained on the bed; her hands ran through her hair as she groaned.

"Why does love have to happen? I was happy before I met him! I was content! And now every time I see him, my Apollo, I feel as if my eyes have been blessed by the mere privilege of looking upon him. And then he leaves my gaze, and I'm left alone, and I just want to crawl in a hole and die alone."

She flipped a pillow over her head to show discomfort. I quirked my eyebrow up.

"You know, Hugo told me that the man is a Jew."

"My love, my heart, my life!"

"But he can't be a Jew, he's human!"

"I wish to rip out my eyes because every time I look at him, I'm reminded that he would never look at me the same way!"

"He doesn't have an elephant trunk or anything!"

"But if I do, I'll never be able to look at him. And I want to. Because he's _gorgeous_!"

"He doesn't even have claws for stealing bags of money…" I continued as my sister continued to whine about practically nothing.

"Oh, and he's so perfect, my Apollo, my love! My imaginary sweetheart… how I love him. How I love his eyes, how I love his smile, how I love his body- voice! I said voice, Pré-Far, you heard me, right? Loving a man's body before marriage is a sin. Even if he has a very sexy, kissable body…" she continued, becoming red in the face gradually, before she began to cough quite loudly. The sound coming from the back of her throat sounded forced. At that point, I've had enough.

"If you like him so much, talk to him! What's the worst that could happen?"

"The universe might implode."

I crooked my mouth to the side as she sat up on her bed, carelessly throwing her copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover on the ground. (We in the Chaput family line have a tendency to throw things away dramatically.) I blinked at her, repeating her explanation, more as a cynical question.

"_The universe might implode._"

"Yes, bits of it!"

She extended her arms out to illustrate the debris scattering across the Milky Way, all that while producing a noise similar to an explosion. She then folded her arms back into her lap, refusing to face the fact that she would have to talk to the man eventually. As she hummed a tune, I recited the Greek alphabet backwards, trying to give her a moment without bothering her too much.

_"Don't dream too far…don't lose sight of who you are…"_

"Omega, psi, chi, phi…"

_"Don't remember that rush of joy… He could be that boy…"_

"…iota, theta, eta…"

"_I'm not that girl…"_

"… gamma, beta, alpha, hey, when are you going to cook something, I'm starving!"

With a sigh, she lifted her head up and looked at me.

"Let me see what I could whip up… Is lobster thermidor in a mornaise sauce alright? Pickled cauliflower on the side?"

"It will have to do," I said with a shrug.

* * *

"Ew," my love said.

"What?"

"Pickled what?" She asked, childishly sticking her tongue out to show discomfort and disbelief concerning the subject.

"Cauliflower. You dislike it?"

"It's disgusting! I hate it any way but _pickled_? I thought you French had taste!" She stayed like that, crunched up, for a mere moment. She then curled up beside me, smiling warmly.

"Just out of curiosity, how do you say that in French?"

"_Chou-fleur_."

"Uck. It's even worse."

And there I had it; her new nickname. A smug grin spread over my face.

She pressed up against my body, and my heart skipped a beat just as it did when I first saw her.

Incidentally, how many of you idiots think that the heart skipping a beat is romantic? It isn't. It's terrifying. You feel like you're on the edge of a full-blown heart-attack. You sweat, you lose your breath and your life flashes before your eyes. Not to mention that it could be a sign of a fatal illness. If your heart skips a beat, Dear Reader, don't write about it. Get it checked.

Ritalin! The drug is called Ritalin! Ah, but I don't need a drug to keep my mind on track. I've got this lovely creature to snap some sense into me.

"You sound like you were a handful… Pré-Far." She smirked.

"Oh, I was. If I were to trust my sister, my first words were _You're doing it wrong, you idiotic plebeian!_"

"Hmm… sounds like you were an eloquent child."

"Not really. I was simply an obnoxious brat," I admitted with a smirk.

"And you still are."

For a moment she sat still, looking into the distance, her brilliant eyes still and deeply focused on something. I always loved how she looked when she was deep in thought, and I could almost imagine the mechanism in her head clicking and turning as she searched her mind for an idea, a word to say to me. I wanted not to wake her from her state of deep pondering. Over the years we had spent together, she only wished for her train of thought to remain intact whenever this impromptu brain-storming session occurred. I respected this decision, though I was often dying to find out what went on in her beautiful mind.

"You said…" she started, looking at me. "That book your sister was reading…"

"Yes?" I asked, leaving the word to linger in the air. She flashed me an in-the-know kind of smile as she cleared her throat and began reciting.

_"His body was urgent against her, and she didn't have the heart anymore to fight...She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But he will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up...she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes...He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering."_

After that recitation, she admitted that she and her friends used to read that particular segment over and over again, blushing and sweating like the silly schoolgirls they were. Even after that explanation, slightly nostalgic and possibly enthralled by that segment, she pressed her hand over her mouth and released a chuckle. I stroked the downy hairs on the back of her neck, teasing her.

"Tell me, Winifred; was that segment a direct quote or a… suggestion?"

And wouldn't you know it, it was both.

I pulled her head closer to mine and her lips parted, I felt her sweet breath on mine. Her delicate fingers undid my tie with one swift motion and tossed it on the ground. I was too enticed by her to inform her that the article was made of silk and should not have been so carelessly tossed about. I was too impatient to care. And then…

Well…

Oh, come on, I don't have to tell you everything, do I? Use your imagination.

* * *

It really is weird how love can meddle with our senses. It's even odder that I only found that out a long way into my adulthood. When controlling another man's life (or rather, his death), I am able to plan everything out to the upmost detail. From the point of the blow, to picking the proper cleaning products to extract the blood off a fine Italian suit. I should probably point out that there is no product capable of that, and people simply must be trained to bleed inside their own clothes. In short, I am a planner in every way. A cold-hearted killer to everyone but my sweet Winifred. A professional like no other.

And then I return to her, after weeks, months, years of fighting those imbeciles and I… I turn into one. As soon as I lay my eyes on her all logic is meaningless and my senses guide my actions rather than my infallible sense of reason. I could try to lie to you and make you believe that her love does not affect me. It does. She is my only, and I do mean only, weakness. And this is why I'm only telling you this, Dear Reader. Say one word of this and you might wake up one day, rather sore and dead.

I could say that her love gives me strength. In a way it does, it keeps me feeling like a human being and not a perfectly, elegantly constructed killing-machine. Then again, it makes me pathetic. To hell with it, it makes all of us pathetic.

There is a tribe in Yemen; the Asra tribe. Legend has it that the men in that tribe wander off into the desert or go into war to die if they cannot be with their significant other. It sounds ridiculous to me, possibly to anybody. But then I wonder, what do we do when our love is gone? Do we suffer through the loss? Some people cannot. Some people continue pursuing them, being either incredibly consistent or insane. Our world had been obsessed with love, and not without cause. There are many definitions of love; most of those are unnecessarily melodramatic, kitschy representations of the abstract occurrence. Some are more skeptical, insisting that love is only a nature's way of tricking people into reproducing. Either way, none of these definitions satisfied me, ever! But frankly, I doubt that this incredible, horrendous feeling could or should be defined with a lazily written paragraph (such as this one, come to think of it).

Do you hear that? It almost sounds like a wall shattering.

Maybe it really doesn't matter how we define it. Like a Spy, love comes in many forms. Some are easier to detect than others. All are an equal nuisance. I am not calling my darling a pest, mind you. I am just calling the feeling a complete bother. It does nothing productive, and only plays tricks on my mind. What else could it be doing? Give me any creature, no matter how plain and horrible, and I will use my photographic memory to describe it to the very last peculiarity. But when my love, my darling is in question, the only adjectives I could bestow upon her are "beautiful" and "mine".

And thus ends this pathetic little narrative of mine. Vivien herself seems to have slipped into a minor role. But please bear in mind, she was important. She presented me with the mold of a perfect woman. Only now I come to terms with how shallow that mold was. Now I know that there are so many important qualities in a woman one must care for. My Winnie has them all.

Except the name, unfortunately. Honestly, who knew that the Scout's little limerick would turn out to be true. Oh, and I remember it every time I call her by her full name.

_You'll have money,_

_You'll have your own honey,_

_Who's pretty and funny,_

_And whose name'll be Fred._

It's funny how happily he chuckles at that before he loses a tooth or two.

And on that note, I will let you in on a little secret about love. Don't over think it. Don't force it. A person's heart is not a briefcase to be captured, it has to be earned. Love is an enigma itself; don't complicate it any further by wondering what it will look like when it comes to you, before it even enters your life. And don't jump into it until you know exactly what you are looking for. Bear in mind, you might have to lower your standards when it comes to certain aspects.

I admit that my _petite chou-fleur_ is no Vivien Leigh.

She's better.

And despite my choice of weaponry, I do not exactly need a gun to remember her, as she is always in my heart. Of course, Vivien has left her own mark on me as well; and almost atavistic phrase that has been vegetating in the back of my mind for some time now. It tends to pop out occasionally, under my breath, mind you. I often use it when I'm completely blinded with human absurdity. The last time it popped out was yesterday, when the Soldier delivered his brilliant idea which involved tricking the enemy by wearing _fewer _hats than usually.

_Fiddle-dee-fucking-dee._

A few more of those phrases still come to mind, but for now I'm afraid I have to end my story. If I tell you one more word about my personal life somebody might use it against me. And around these parts, being known about means almost certain death. But I'm more worried about the BLU team massacring us tomorrow as we walk out on the battlefield with bare heads.

But I won't think about that today.

I'll think about it tomorrow.

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: ***looks up at writing* I have to admit, I'm getting better. A little better, all the time (I can't get no worse).


End file.
